


all the light we cannot see

by ambrosie



Series: all the light we cannot see [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, copious amounts of psychology i'm sure, guys i write most of these chapters at 1 am i just want u to know this, hey so i love mazm phantom but some things had to be fixed, honestly everything is mazm and everything hurts, hurt comfort??? flangst...., i was mad that there was no stay with erik and use communications option, mazm went leroux but then took a hard left and i have to fix that, more angst than fluff but more comfort than hurt, so i am here making my own which may or may not be a good thing, the e/c slow burn is here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24563962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambrosie/pseuds/ambrosie
Summary: "I’ll ask you one last time, Erik. What do you want me to do with you?”Christine presents Erik with an ultimatum. His decision changes the course of everyone's lives.Or, Christine and Erik learn how to be brave.The "Learn how to communicate with Erik" MazM route that we all deserved
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: all the light we cannot see [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775515
Comments: 32
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello yes it's MazM Phantom fix it time. For those of you who haven't ever played MazM Phantom of the Opera, know that it starts off following Leroux and then takes a hard left turn that makes... not a lot of sense, so it is in fact my legal obligation to solve that. 
> 
> So, welcome to the slow burn of slow burns, where two people learn about themselves and about each other, and how to move forward together.

“I’ll ask you one last time, Erik. What do you want me to do with you?” Christine’s voice was soft, gentle, filled with sorrow for the man before her. For quite some time, she had believed that this man was in fact the Angel of Music— but now, she knew he was most certainly not. She knew Erik fancied himself a monster, but she knew of no monster who would sink to his knees before her and plead for love. “Love me, please, just love me! For that, I will do _anything_!” 

Anything was incredibly vague, but Christine knew well that if she wanted proof of something genuine, if she would ever be able to believe that he could change, she needed to ask. “If you would do anything… would you unmask yourself and live in the light?” A silence fell between the two of them, tense. She knew what she was asking of him, that he would be frightened, but she hoped that he knew she asked not out of malice, but of a genuine need to know. It was his life in the shadows that allowed him to kill, and if he lived in the light, then perhaps… “Where would I live, Christine? If I were to live in the light, where would that be?” Oh, there was such sorrow in his voice, she couldn't help but weep. But, where would he live? Admittedly, she hadn't thought of an answer to that question. She simply assumed that he'd immediately refuse and then send her away. “How can I do this for you when I have nowhere to stay? How could I ever deny you…? You must know that your Erik loves you…” Yes. Yes, she knew that. Or, at least she knew that he felt something that he thought was love. Erik had been denied a life like everyone else, whatever had happened in his past had surely given him a very different perspective on the world from her own, or from Meg, or Sorelli, or Jammes. Or Raoul. 

Raoul. What would he think of this? Of her proposition to Erik, who she had said was so very terrifying to her? Yes, she was afraid of him, but to leave him alone? No one deserved to be alone like that. Raoul was a sweet boy, the boy who had rescued her scarf from the sea, the boy she loved, but Erik had helped her reach her dream of performing. Of singing. She could not simply leave him alone, unless he denied her request. 

“We will find somewhere, together.” Christine stared for a moment after speaking, realising how that must've sounded. She'd not asked Erik to leave his home beneath the opera so that he would be with her, she'd asked to see if he had the capacity for change. This day, it seemed that she was learning her own capacities. Never had she asked for the ability to give compassion to men who committed horrid crimes, but the words hung in the air. He stared at her with an unreadable expression on his face. “Together…” It was strange to hear that, for the both of them. Christine knew that this was not what he’d expected, and it was certainly not what she’d thought. She’d come to confront Erik, and now the possibility that they would find a place to live together… But only because she had spoken of it. What had she condemned herself to? The two weeks in Erik’s home had been trying, filled with quite a bit of emotion, but to live in a house, a real house with windows and sunlight that shone through? That was never something she believed that she could do with Erik. They both knew that. Erik was not so blind to believe that she would decide to love him if he lived in the world with everyone else. Yet, he surprised her when he stood, that blank look still upon his face. “This has been my home… this opera house… We cannot live too far from it… I want to hear the music…” 

_Oh_. Christine was almost hoping that he’d say no. The anything that she had proposed seemed like something he would never do, but here he stood with his back to her, speaking of places to live. What would she tell Raoul? Her sweet Raoul who loved her so dearly, who she loved as well! How could she tell him what she had done? Would he understand? Would he wait for her? Surely, Erik would flee from the light, their time together would be brief. A small part of Christine’s heart, however, leapt for joy at the answer. It meant he was at least willing to try to change. Whether or not he would be able to do so in the long run was a concern for a later date, right? “It wouldn’t be hard to find a place for rent… you won’t have to be far away from here… but if I am to live with you…” She thought of what it was like, packing belongings to settle down somewhere else. She thought of what Erik owned and rushed out of the Louis-Philippe room to head right to Erik’s room. The room with his belongings. It came as no surprise when she heard Erik’s voice from behind her. Before he could say more than her name, she turned to face him with tears in her eyes. “You will sleep in a bed, Erik. A real bed. Not with me, but I will not have you sleeping as if…” She’d been so very distressed by the coffin, by his comments about getting used to eternity, of his desire to fall asleep and never wake! “We will find somewhere close to the Opera House…” 

He stood there in stunned silence once more, his gaze shifting between Christine and the coffin and then back to Christine. She wanted him to sleep in a bed. Not with her, of course, and the realization that she perhaps thought that he would… “We will find somewhere with two bedrooms, then. With doors that can lock.” He would never force her to live in a house where she would be forced to stay in a room with him. Where she’d be forced to lay beside him— He’d given her a room with a door that locked here in his house. He’d hoped that she would at least understand that he would never, never become a monster like _that_. It seemed, however, that she hadn’t been able to come to that conclusion. Could he blame her, though? He’d taken her to his house, forced her to wear his ring, demanded that she loved no one else but him. Of course acting like that, he could see why having her own room with a door that locked was still little comfort. “You won't have to see me…” At this, Christine sighed. It did defeat the purpose of her plan if he simply avoided her, but to be near him?

 _Oh, Christine Daaé_ , she thought, _what trouble you've gotten in!_

“Your friend, the Daroga… he can help find a place for us, I'm certain.” It was only a thought, the words spoken softly, but clearly loud enough for Erik to hear. “He’s not my friend.” Christine had to try not to laugh. Was this Erik’s sense of humor? From what she had overheard, the Daroga was most certainly Erik’s friend. Or, at least the Daroga saw Erik as a friend. Erik wasn't fantastic at seeing relationships for what they were; but she knew better than to argue the point. Silence fell between the two of them before Christine turned to head back to her own room. “Erik… what I want is for you to live. To live a life where you don't have to take the lives of others… I am going to gather my belongings… you should, too.” With that, she hurried out, not bothering to look back.

* * *

Erik continued to stare at the door from which Christine had left for another three minutes before he managed to start to put together all of the things that had just transpired. She spoke of wishing for him to live a life like everyone else— now that she had gone to her room, he allowed himself to laugh. A horrid sound, like an old instrument terribly out of tune from disuse, for what did Erik ever have to laugh about? And wasn't this the comedy of the ages! Christine inviting him to live in the world above like a real person! So that real people could know what monsters were like. She spoke of change and oh, how he wanted to believe in the innocence of her request— but how could it be something innocent when she must've known… Yes, he thought as he sorted through sheet music, through charcoals and paints and makeups and clothes, this was a form of torture that he had agreed to! Because he did say that he would do anything for love, or not love, because Christine would never, never love him. Erik was not so foolish as to believe that she would, but he could believe that she could be a wonderful actress. And because he loved her, he'd let himself be fooled. Fake love was the best he’d get, and at the very least he'd learned not to leave a good thing waiting. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik doesn't take well to the idea of change. Christine reflects on her faith for the first time.

Finding a new home and moving was about as pleasant as Christine assumed that it would be. Certainly , she had never imagined that such a drastic change would go over smoothly, and she was right. In the week that it took for a suitable place to be located, Erik’s behavior had made her wish that he would just go back to acting as he did before— Where his horrible mood swings were suddenly harmless and she found him about as terrifying as a lost kitten, as compared to the absolute nightmare he had become. He’d broken many things, tables, chairs, the Louis-Philippe room had been torn apart! She’d spent most of that week hiding in her room, opening the door only when Erik would knock to tell her that he had brought her a meal. Of course, she waited until she was certain he had gone to take out his frustrations on some other innocent household object, listening as his footsteps faded, until a crash was heard in another room. He had a way of making his presence known like that. Truly, it was so different from the silent phantom he’d been before. 

_ Erik is only a man _ , she reminded herself as she opened the door,  _ a volatile man, a tragic man. A genius architect and composer, he is only a man, and he most certainly shows it! If Erik was an angel, he would never cause such a ruckus! _ She grabbed the plate of food and the cup of tea that he’d left for her and quickly closed and locked the door again.  _ Even when he’s acting out like this, he takes the time to make meals and brew tea. _

Erik’s propensity for dyadic behavior was not the only strange thing about him. His face notwithstanding, Erik was a genius among men. He stood out even among other geniuses! He’d told her about building grand palaces and she’d read a part of the score of  _ Don Juan Triumphant _ — a score that made Mozart look like an idiot. To think that someone so brilliant had been dealt a fate like this; her heart wept for him! It was a tragedy, but the more time she spent with Erik, the more his fate seemed as natural as any other fact of life. The sun rises in the east. After Summertime, there is Fall. Erik's lot in life was this contentment with agony. 

Never would she doubt His ways, for all things had reason, but this was one of The Lord’s choices that Christine simply couldn’t understand. Everything was as He made it, so why did Erik suffer? God was not so cruel as to allow a lamb to endlessly wander, but the Shepherd had yet to call His lamb back. Christine knew that it was this horrible suffering and lack of compassion from others that had made the man turn his back on God, made him scoff when she’d say grace before dinner. At least, Erik’s blaspheme seemed to point to that conclusion, that he did not believe in God, but he  **_did_ ** believe that Christine was his salvation.  _ You are an angel sent from Heaven _ , he’d whispered as he knelt at her feet. How her skin had crawled! The sight of Erik kneeling to worship a false idol, for she was only human! Oh, it had been this selfsame behavior that frightened her so! As if his sins would stain her! 

Now, simply reflecting upon that single night, she thought of how foolish that was. The only person who could stain her with sin was herself. She knew this all along, and yet, in that moment with Erik at her feet, she’d forgotten. He had no more control over her actions than she did over his— That was what made him a human, not an angel, not a monster. In her room, she said grace before taking a bite of the most delicious slice of roasted duck that she had ever tasted in her life. 

* * *

While Christine ate, Erik had destroyed three more chairs and had begrudgingly gone to his room to find a scarf to wear. Christine had decided to throw his mask into the fireplace. She wanted this. She wanted him to unmask himself and live in the light, and she would at least pretend to love him. Yes, that in itself was so very motivating, that beautiful fake love— because at least she would be there.  _ But, she does make this so very difficult _ , he thought, grabbing a deep red scarf. Red, like the one that her lover had fetched from the sea. The boy she would give her real love to— because she would never, never love Erik! Was that all a part of her plan? He'd become so overwhelmed, he'd flee or perhaps he'd die, and her boy would be waiting for her. 

Yes, that must've been it. This was all some elaborate plot to lead him to his death, and he was willingly falling for it! Of course, Christine was too lovely to ask him to spill his blood for her, so she asked it in this way. And he said yes, the pitiful wretch that he was! But he had grown so accustomed to the mask, and he knew that change was never an easy thing. Change was to chew off his wrist at the shackle, tear the nails from his feet that had rooted him to these floorboards, change was to flee from one cage— only to end up in another. That was all change had ever done for him. From his childhood home, to the carnival, to Persia, to Paris, and now this. His new wingèd cage by the name of Christine! Anything for Christine. Satisfied that the red scarf served as an acceptable buffer from the prying eyes of the world, Erik went to meet with his old friend, to ask a favor. 

* * *

How thankful Christine was for the nightmare that was Erik’s horrible tantrum in anticipation of the move to be over! He’d come to knock on her door, to tell her that he had the Daroga deliver payment for their new home, that they would be able to move in comfortably— “Erik,” Christine had opened the door to her room, a puzzled look upon her face, “Where is this home of ours?” As it turned out, it was not so far away. Perhaps seven minutes on foot, much less by carriage. And what a lovely home it was! It seemed that Erik had already had furniture moved in. Always prepared, at least in that way. He showed her around, the little tour ending at her room, decorated in pastel blues, pale golds, and whites— He wanted her to be comfortable, so he’d chosen light colors. She turned to look at him, a small smile upon her face. He was far from ideal, but he certainly wasn’t thoughtless. “Thank you— I...” Christine reached out, Erik stepped back, nearly stumbling. He was still afraid, which she knew she shouldn’t have been so surprised by, and yet… It was as if she’d thought that something would’ve changed just from being in a new home. She watched him nod slowly, still in shock. “Whatever it is you wish to discuss, Christine, we shall talk about tomorrow. Goodnight.” With that, he turned and left, leaving Christine in her room. She closed her door only when she heard a sound of another door close and lock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cool, this is very scattered. Initially, I had more for this chapter, but I'm moving the next part to its own chapter, otherwise this would've gotten very long. 
> 
> Christine has a lot of religious themes going on in her character, so that's that. Erik's trying, maybe. Somewhat. Gold star.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Erik spend their first day together in the light.

Christine woke to the sound of a piano. There was light through the bedroom windows, making the bedroom look absolutely heavenly — there was light. She was no longer in the catacombs. And neither was Erik. Heading to the wardrobe, she marvelled at the selection of beautiful dresses, even the plainest ones were more beautiful than she could've imagined! _Did Erik spend so much money on these? Does he spend anything on himself? No, he is far from the type to do anything kind for himself._ Even this, Christine knew, was torture for Erik, who had been shunned and hunted down by other people for all of his life. He tortured himself for her. She shuddered before picking a blue dress to change into. 

When she entered the drawing room, his back was turned to her. The curtains were drawn, making it impossible for someone to look in the window and see him from the outside, but she wasn't on the outside. At least, not in that way. And after this, she was fairly certain that even if she wanted it, Erik would never let her in. Did she want that? To understand him on such a deep level? He was volatile and soulful and so very sad, but he had a strange allure, like old, holy artwork left in the husk of a burnt out cathedral. In his own way, he was quite beautiful. Not conventionally, no, but art was art. He did not turn to face her right away, although Christine knew he was very aware of her presence. Instead, he remained at the piano, playing some ethereal piece which she could only assume was an original of his. 

It was a tragedy, she knew as she listened, that Erik had never been able to share his gift with the world. The world had shunned him for his face and in return he had shown the world how cruel he could be— with the death of Joseph Buquet, and the fact that instead of comforting her through all of that hell, he'd simply sent an excessive amount of threatening letters! Raoul would've been there to comfort her. He was there so often… 

“Christine.” 

Erik’s gorgeous voice brought her back from her thoughts, although new ones quickly came. He was calm, which she took as a blessing— “Good morning,” she began, averting her gaze. While she had wished for Erik to abandon the mask, she knew that no matter what she did, his face would remain the way it was when she first broke the spell. With a whole face, she was certain he would’ve been devastatingly handsome, and for a moment she allowed herself to imagine. For that moment, she looked up and saw a refined gentleman with his long, black hair and hazel eyes flecked with gold, a slight bow curve to his lips and a far too perfect nose. A man who looked like a king— and she blinked, letting the reality set back in. Still, Erik had long, black hair and hazel eyes flecked with gold, but he was so very gaunt— the most jarring thing about his face was most certainly the lack of a nose, which lent him a skull-like appearance. _If you continued to think me handsome, would you love me?_

There was a wash of shame that covered her as she realised that perhaps the answer was yes. It was stupid and shallow, but she had been hoping… And it was unfair to the both of them for her to think like that. Mostly it was unfair to him, as he had been forced for so long to hide away and perhaps make others believe what she once thought. If they were to move forward, they would have to see each other as human beings, not as angels on pedestals and not as demons to condemn. Oh, she could feel his eyes on her, that gaze that frightened her far more than his face— which in comparison was actually quite tame. Perhaps what she was truly afraid of was everything Erik could do, and everything that he had done. 

“You slept late, it is already noon.” Erik murmured, finally moving away from the piano. Christine looked up, tilting her head to the side. Already noon? Perhaps that made sense. The move had been stressful, and the week prior even more so— “You should eat.” At this, she blinked. “There’s food?” Erik sighed, turning from her. “Of course there’s food. I wouldn’t let you starve.” She realized then that she had most certainly offended him. Of course there was food, because he said he loved her. Because he wasn’t a monster, he was a man who was poorly handling the fate he had been dealt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—” He had turned to face her once more, a gloved finger touched gently to her lips to silence her, some unreadable emotion in his eyes. “It is forgiven. I will make breakfast for you, Christine.”

* * *

Breakfast was awkward. Truly, it was more of a lunch and less of a breakfast, and Christine couldn't help but wonder where on earth Erik learned to cook, or how he came by food in the first place. Had she not clearly offended him but moments before, she would've asked. Instead, she found herself sitting at a table while Erik prepared a meal for her— and from the looks of it, one for himself. “Will you … are you going to stay here? For the meal?” Erik set her plate before her. “I will not subject you to that. Should you wish to see me, I will be composing.” With that, Erik vanished back into the drawing room. Christine stared after him for a moment before looking down and saying grace. 

As always, Erik’s cooking was wonderful. For a man who had been living in a cellar, he had a surprisingly vast amount of practical day to day skills. Like cooking and sewing, the latter which she had seen him doing on the second day of her stay in his house by the lake. Maybe it was because he was living like that— No one else would have done such things for him, it wasn't as if he could simply walk out into the streets of Paris and go to buy new clothes or food—

Except, when she truly thought about it, he could. He could say that he was a soldier who came back from the Crimean War, no one would question his face. Or perhaps he could say he had been injured during the Paris Commune. He was old enough to have been a soldier in that war, or so she assumed— one of the greatest mysteries about Erik was his age. He had traveled to so many places, so he couldn't be too young, but he had always been running about the catwalks and the catacombs, so he couldn't be too old. Besides, she remembered the feeling of being carried by him, how she felt that under his clothes he was not so skeletal as he was simply lithe. _He does quite a bit of physical activity_ , she thought, and found herself feeling quite foolish for believing that he could truly be a corpse. His face was not helpful in judging his age, in fact, it made him seem quite ageless, as if he was something primordial rather than something human. There was very little about Erik's physical appearance that could lead a person to any correct conclusions about his life. After all, he'd lived in the catacombs and still dressed better than a great portion of Parisian men. Perhaps she’d ask. Would it be rude to ask such a thing? _Oh, Christine_ , she thought to herself, _truly you must be going mad!_

* * *

Of all the things Erik had anticipated Christine to ask him, staying for breakfast was not it. She had looked at him with such a strange expression, one that made his blood run cold and his stomach twist in knots. One that made him wish that he'd said no, that he'd decided that this feeling was fake, that he only cared because she could sing— How he'd fought the urge to run when he'd seen the flush of pink across her cheeks; what on earth could she have been thinking of? And while she'd been staring so intently at him! Frustrated, Erik decided that perhaps he would simply spend the day composing, which as far as he could tell would be how he'd spend the rest of his life— shut in the drawing room with the curtains closed, seated at the piano, and finishing _Don_ _Juan_. 

Which was how he'd thought his life would end before Christine, except before he lived in the catacombs and slept in a coffin. _A dark room won't be so different_ , he thought, a bitter laugh escaping him as his thoughts began to spiral. _Christine brought me here so that she could run away. She burned my masks so I would not be able to follow her. I will die here in this room. She will leave me._ With an angry cry, his hands came down on the piano’s keys just as he heard the door open. Hearing her voice, even when it wavered with fear, made him realize that once again, he was wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly, they are both disasters. Did you know this was also supposed to be part of the second chapter, and there was supposed to be more conversation, but now I had to make one chapter concept into 3 separate chapters ... Such is the life of a writer.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine asks Erik for a fact about his life in an attempt to make the best of their new situation. Erik continues to see things differently.

Would it always be like this? Christine had to wonder — with how Erik always reacted, always assuming the worst, always pushing others away even when… When what? When people tried to be close? Had anyone tried to be close? There was that other man from Persia, the Daroga of Mazandaran, Erik had told her once and only once— and every time she brought him up, Erik insisted that the Daroga was not his friend. So, perhaps the answer was yes. Someone had tried to understand Erik, and he'd pushed back. What would he do about her? For a man who talked so much about wanting to be loved, he certainly avoided the notion like the plague. 

Maybe he simply knew no better. Had anyone taught Erik about how to live? Was he truly self taught as he claimed? While she was certain he was a genius from looking at his music alone, it was clear that whatever instruction Erik had received in socialising with others was far less than adequate, if any at all! “Erik, we… If this is going to work at all, you can't keep shutting me out! You claim to love me—” 

“I  _ do _ love you, Christine Daaé. I love you more than you could ever know!” 

Christine frowned, stepping from the doorway to take a seat on an incredibly expensive couch close to the piano, her blue eyes never leaving Erik’s golden ones. If this was going to work, she had to be brave. And Erik’s face was far from the most unsettling aspect of him. “Then please, let me in. I know so little about you, and it frightens me. You know so much about me, and I no longer want to be afraid! You have played the role of a ghost and the role of an angel, but I am not living in this house with a ghost or an angel— I am living here with a  **_man_ ** .” She made certain to emphasise that last part, for Erik had such a tendency to forget that he was still a man. That his face did not make him a monster. In fact, he continued to assume that everything that went wrong in their relationship had been due to his face— which was so horrendously untrue. “Erik, you told me once that I would be safe so long as I asked no questions, but that is not safety, that is ignorance. I don't want to be ignorant of you. so, please…” Much to her own surprise, Christine realized that she had reached out and taken his chilled, sinewy hands in her own small, soft ones.

* * *

How was this even possible? Erik stared at his hands, at Christine’s hands, as if they were suddenly foreign objects. He had taken off his gloves as not to dirty them while he ate, away from Christine, of course, and if at all possible he would keep it that way— there was no reason for her to sit and watch him try to act like a normal person when they both knew that he wasn't. Or, he'd assumed that she understood that. Now, with her warm hands holding onto his own, he was starting to think that perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps Christine was still lost in her fairy tales of the Angel of Music. Why else would she be touching his hands like this? 

“You want to know about your Erik, but you will not like what you learn! You will listen and you will pity your poor, unhappy Erik! I do not want your pity, Christine…” They’re too close. He can't breathe with her so close, and so he pulls away! Surely, he's imagined the way she flinched as if something she wanted had been taken from her! For how could she want to hold his hands? Christine Daaé was a good, devout girl, she had no need to concern herself with things like him.

“Just tell me something about yourself, Erik — and I'll tell you something about me,” Oh, how could he argue when she had that look upon her face? When she looked up at him from under her lashes, a few shades darker than the golden straw color of her hair — “Christine, your Erik knows your secrets already —” 

“No, Erik. You don't. You do know many things about me, and I don't quite wish to know how you learned them, for some of them I never told to my angel — but you don't know everything. So, please, it doesn't have to be something big. I want to feel safe.”

Once again, Erik found that he could truly deny her nothing. She simply wanted to know things about him so she could feel safe. If she felt safe, she'd stay— so he’d tell her the softer things. “When I was a child, I would write music to be played at the cathedral in my hometown. I would leave them on the steps in the middle of the night and they would be played in the mornings.” It was something small and safe. Something devout, even though she knew he was far from that. To his surprise and delight, Christine’s face lit up! “Oh, Erik! I’m certain they were lovely! I only wish I could hear everything you've composed—” She knew that in the end, that would never happen. Even if she were to get Erik to tell her where he had been born, even if she heard the lovely music in a cathedral, there was his opera,  _ Don Juan Triumphant _ , which he refused to play for her and insisted would be taken with him to his grave. 

“Well, you've told me something about your life, so I'll share something of mine,” the words were spoken in such a sweet tone, and she noted how it seemed that there was a hint of color across his cheeks. “When I was three, my father brought me a little grey kitten as a birthday present. When I first came to Paris and moved in with Madame Valerius, she was still with me. Oh, Erik, it was such a tragedy when she passed! I would most certainly adore another cat!” 

Erik couldn't help but imagine Christine at three years old with a tiny grey kitten in her arms. She was right, he didn't know everything about her, a fact that both annoyed and relieved him. “Thank you for telling me about your kitten,” he'd keep her desire in mind, perhaps he could come across another cat to give her as a gift. “And thank you for telling me about your compositions for a cathedral.” With the sweetest smile, Christine stood and reached for Erik’s empty plate, seeming incredibly relieved that he'd eaten, before giving a small nod and leaving the room. It was a start, wasn't it? 

Erik watched her leave, frozen where he sat until he heard the sound of the front door opening and closing, startling him back to the harsh reality of his situation. What a fool he had been to think that anything he could ever tell her would truly make her stay! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok hello I have finally gotten around to updating this! I have the outline for uhhh I think 20 chapters so far, I'm just horridly slow at actually gathering my thoughts. 
> 
> Gold star to Christine for reaching out, even when Erik continues to have no real grasp on the situation. 
> 
> Next up, Christine gets to visit her friends and Erik continues to ... be Erik


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine goes to visit her friends at the Opera House to seek advice.

Christine stood outside the house and let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding in the first place. It had certainly been a peculiar afternoon, and a large part of her was still reeling. She'd reached out to him, held his hands and he hadn't reacted with the violence she so often feared. He hadn't placed her hands upon his face and he most certainly hadn't forced her to make him bleed — although she was fairly certain she'd made his soul bleed instead. Erik had simply stared at their hands and then he'd pulled away. But he'd given her some little fact about his life, which she assumed was true simply for the fact that Erik knew music as intimately as he knew despair. Music would not leave him because of his face or his actions. Not like people — 

He must've thought she was leaving him in that house, running away from him after ensuring he could never follow. Surely he thought she had been whisked away by Raoul, as if he believed her devious enough to do such a thing — Perhaps if they'd had this exchange a month ago, she would. She'd run away with Raoul, never to be seen again, and Erik would… Would what?  _ He would die of a broken heart _ , her thoughts provided,  _ but you would be free of him _ . To her surprise, Christine concluded quite quickly that she did not want that, and that she could never want that. With a huff, she went back into the house, calling to let Erik know that she was going to see her friends at the opera. 

As expected, Erik flew from the drawing room to the foyer where she stood, slamming the front door closed behind her with a wild look in his eyes. The look that always frightened her, and she was certain he knew that, too. “You're leaving me to die here.” Christine frowned as she watched the rise and fall of Erik’s chest, determined to look at anything but his eyes. “No, I am going to see my friends at the opera. Meg, Sorelli, and Jammes have always been there for me, whenever I had things that I couldn't make sense of on my own, whenever I was frightened or sad— And if I return to the opera, surely I will continue to sing. You want me to continue to sing, right?” 

Erik’s rage seemed to dissipate, replaced with some odd mix of awe and guilt. Of course she wanted to see her friends. Christine wanted to talk to them, to have guidance from someone who was not the Angel of Music, who she had learned quite suddenly was never real. That was his fault, wasn't it? To have played pretend like that, to have built a relationship made of lies— not his first time doing such a thing, but most certainly his last. “When… when will you return?” How frightened he sounded! Much as Christine had made a conscious effort to avoid eye contact, Erik now focused his attention on the door behind her as not to see the look of pity that must've been on her lovely face. 

Erik didn't want her pity, he wanted her love! As foolish and impossible as it was, it was a desire he could not rid himself of. He never asked for the capacity to adore someone, and he was certain Christine had never asked for the capacity to show any form of kindness to ugly things like him. 

“I will return tomorrow evening. I must also see Madame Valerius.” Christine mustered up the courage to look up at Erik at about the same time he looked down in genuine shock. Had he been expecting her to say she would never return? Holding up her hand with the plain gold ring, she repeated herself, hoping that he would believe her. By some miracle, it seemed like he did. Without acknowledging what she'd said, Erik pulled away from her and vanished back into the drawing room. Christine stood in the foyer of the house to listen to the beautiful and sorrowful music that came from that room, only heading out again when she was certain Erik had lost himself in his greatest comfort. 

* * *

As Erik had told her, their home was not far from the opera. He wanted to hear music, she wanted to see her friends— and from the excited gasp so very recognizable as Jammes’ followed by the familiar footsteps of Meg and Sorelli, her friends wanted to see her, too. 

“Where have you been? You vanished for two weeks, you come back and give no answers and then you vanished again and now you're back! Christine, can you tell us your secrets now?” Jammes began questioning Christine as was tradition, barely taking breaths between sentences. For the first time in what felt like years, Christine was relieved to be bombarded with inquiries. It meant that her friends were really there. That Erik hadn't followed her and done some strange trick to leave her feeling helpless and afraid. It meant he wasn't there listening and that she could finally say everything she wanted to say since she'd been brought back from Erik’s home by the lake after two weeks of… 

“I was… my teacher, the Angel of Music and the Phantom have always been the same person… It's been such an ordeal! I wanted to tell you, my friends… but he was always watching, always listening!” Jammes looked ready to faint, Sorelli reached for the dagger that she always seemed to have on her person, but Meg simply gave her a look of solemn understanding. “Where is he now?” 

_This_ would be the difficult part. “He… is no longer at the opera house, and I… I need your advice, now more than ever!” 

The four friends made their way back to Christine’s dressing room, taking seats on the floor. Just like they had before all of the terrors had come to light. Before Christine truly thought about singing. Before Erik appeared in the guise of the Angel of Music. Now that he no longer lurked in the shadows of the opera, Christine told her friends everything that she could. About what had happened the first five days she spent with Erik— 

“He gave you food and attempted to make small talk and continued to give you lessons? Nothing else?” Sorelli couldn't help but doubt such things, especially about the Phantom! “He was truly a perfect gentleman, if not simply unskilled at idle conversation. He simply told me that he wanted to spend five days with me and that he would bring me back after the days had passed.” A thoughtful look crossed Christine’s face as she recalled those days. Erik had been cryptic, but he had respected her when she asked to be alone, he never put his hands on her unless to catch her if she fainted. And what had she done in return? 

“You were down there for two weeks! What happened to the five days?” Sorelli’s temper had flared, the look on her face was one of a woman who was going to commit a murder. Christine shook her head, placing her hand over Sorelli’s in an attempt to calm the Prima Ballerina down. “The Phantom… his name is Erik and he… When I stayed with him, he simply told me that I was not to take his mask. But I did, right before he was going to open the passage for me to return!” 

Christine would never forget his cry of fury, of agony and despair! She would never forget the look in his eyes, she would never forget how he grabbed her hands and forced her to claw at his face so she could know that it was real, the face that looked like death. She spoke of how he raged and how he wept at her feet, and how she had told him to show her his face without fear. “You see, he says he loves me… I convinced him to leave the catacombs…” She'd burned his masks before they left the catacombs for good, a blank look on her face mirroring the blank look on his. They'd stood there watching his barriers from the prying eyes of the world go up in flames in a moment that was more devastating and more intimate than anything they'd shared before. “And what are your feelings about him?” Meg’s voice brought Christine back to the present and when she opened her mouth, she realised that truly, she wasn't sure what she felt about Erik. 

“I… I do not love him in the way he wants, but I also believe that he deserves to learn what joy is. I do not pity him because he doesn't want my pity. I… I care about him despite what he's done… I am terrified of his temper but I can't help but adore his talents. Oh, whatever I feel is far too complex for even my own comprehension and they're  **_my_ ** feelings!” For her friends, it seemed that Christine’s feelings were not nearly as impossible to comprehend as she thought. “You care for him. You want to help him, and… that’s not a bad thing.” Meg gave a small smile and placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder. “If you asked him to do this for you, to leave the catacombs and live in the light, then he must have the capacity for change. Just… be careful. We’re here if you need us.” Yes, she knew that. She knew her friends were there for her, as skittish as they were about the Opera Ghost, they were brave when it counted. For the rest of the time she spent at the opera house, Christine simply talked about other things, asking her friends about what had happened while she was gone, laughing and feeling as if the weight of the world was melting away. She left the Opera House with a smile, bidding her friends goodbye and promising that she would not be disappearing, simply visiting Madame Valerius, and then returning to Erik as she’d promised. “What if he prevents you from returning?” Jammes grabbed Christine’s hand, trembling— “He wants me to sing. He would never keep me from this place. I promise, I will come back.” 

For the first time since she’d learned the truth about Erik, she knew that she was right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erik sure is dealing ... less horribly than he could, but still badly. Christine just wants advice and has no idea what to do, because she DOES have feelings and doesn't know it, but her friends sure do. They're concerned, but they also trust her, which is what good friends do.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine meets the mysterious Melek, a woman with ties to Erik's past, and starts to understand her own feelings a little more.

Explaining the situation to Madame Valerius went over much better than Christine had anticipated. It wasn’t the sort of dinner conversation that either of them ever thought they’d have, and most certainly if it was to happen, they’d both assumed that the conversation would focus on a certain Raoul de Chagny, not a mystery man named Erik. While the old woman was incredibly concerned after hearing the whole story, she took Christine’s hands and told her that all people deserved the forgiveness of God. If Erik had pretended to be the Angel of Music, then perhaps that was also proof that he truly cared for Christine, who had so desperately wanted the Angel of Music to keep her company and to guide her. And clearly, she cared for him. “My dear, having a kind heart is a great strength. If you are the first person that this Erik has let into his life, if you believe this is the right thing to do, then it is.” The woman who had been the only mother she really knew gave her a kiss on the cheek and bid her goodnight. How grateful she was for Madame Valerius’ advice, because she knew that it was true. It wouldn’t be easy, but no one deserved to be left alone like that. For so long, Erik had suffered, he lived in the catacombs alone… 

Why? If he knew the Daroga, why was he living in the catacombs? Why hadn’t his friend helped him?  _ He’s not my friend _ , came the echo of Erik’s voice as Christine changed into a nightgown and reached for the rosary on her bedside table. No, Nadir wasn’t the same sort of friend that Christine had, but clearly, something had happened to make some sort of bond between Erik and the Daroga. Another mystery about Erik, it felt like the more she thought about him, the more mysterious he became! Even what Erik had told her about the music he’d composed as a child led to more questions than answers. 

That one little part of his life also felt as if it was the most intimate thing that he had ever shared, perhaps with anyone. He’d given her a gift.  _ I  _ **_do_ ** _ love you, Christine Daaé _ . The more she thought about it, the more she believed it. Obsession hadn’t driven him to tell her something about his past. He could’ve easily refused, he could’ve lashed out, but instead he gave her that single soft thing. She prayed that night and thought of Erik.

* * *

The next morning, Christine woke at what she thought to be an acceptable time, certainly not after noon, and found a simple dress to wear. Something that looked so plain compared to the dresses Erik had bought for her, even the comparatively plain one she’d worn the day before. She had a quiet and comfortable breakfast with Madame Valerius before deciding to return to the Opera House to tell her friends her new revelations. She’d make it home in the evening, just as she’d promised, and she’d move forward from there. Of that, she was certain— or at least incredibly determined. She would talk with him, she’d learn more about him, and maybe he’d start to feel safe, too. He certainly deserved to have that. Lost in her thoughts as she exited the carriage with a polite thank you given to the driver, she only managed to make it half-way to the Opera House before she slammed unceremoniously into another person. With a startled gasp, Christine offered her hand to the other, a middle aged woman with long dark hair and a swarthy complexion that reminded her of Meg. “I am so sorry— I wasn’t watching where I was going, are you alright?” The woman seemed to smile faintly, looking in Christine’s direction with clouded eyes. “There’s no need to apologize, but perhaps you could help me find somewhere else to wait.” Blind. The woman was blind, which did nothing to help Christine feel less guilty about bumping into her like that, but at least she spoke with a warm tone… and a foreign accent. “Somewhere to wait?” Christine, allowed the woman to take hold of her arm and guided her to the marble seats that she used to sit on when she simply needed fresh air and a place to think. “Who are you waiting for, if I may ask?” 

“Nadir Khan. He’s a dear friend of mine.” 

Christine shuddered, evidently enough so for the other woman to notice. “I know Nadir… at least somewhat. We… met through… a mutual friend, I suppose—” This seemed to pique the other woman’s interest. “A friend of Nadir is most often a friend of mine, so I am quite fortunate to have bumped into you, miss…” A pause, the woman looking expectantly, “Daaé. Christine, my name is Christine.” This time, the woman seemed to tense up, although she took a breath and managed to relax again. “Christine, it’s lovely to meet you. My name is Melek. Nadir has told me quite a bit about you.” Another pause before Melek spoke again, this time softly, “The mutual friend who you met Nadir through, was his name Erik?” 

Whatever Christine was about to say to Melek was forgotten, and she was suddenly very glad that Melek could not see the look on her face. “Ah… yes. He’s… my tutor. He taught me how to sing.” This earned a strange laugh from Melek, who Christine was quite certain was far from fond of Erik by the way she’d spoken his name before— “A vocal coach? That’s quite tame, isn’t it. I wouldn’t have thought him to be able to manage something so… mundane.” Oh, if only Melek knew how far from mundane the experience had been. How the mundane seemed to frighten Erik. Or perhaps she already knew. “Melek, did you know Erik? Can you tell me about him?” At this, Melek seemed to panic, her grip on Christine’s arm becoming harsh, her pale eyes widening— “No, not here, not where he can always listen—” 

“He’s not here anymore, Melek. I promise I’ll explain that, but I… I want to know...” The next question was exactly what Christine had anticipated; “Is he dead?” Something about the way Melek asked the question made Christine want to cry. “No. No, I… I asked him to come with me, to live in the light, but he hasn’t left the home we moved to…” Oh, and what a horrible sound Melek made in response! “Christine, Erik is an assassin and a liar! The things he did… I never understood why Nadir helped him in the first place! In Mazandaran, they called him the Angel of Death!” 

Perhaps it was this mix of fury and astonishment that made Melek tell Christine what she knew of Erik. How his origins were mysterious, but no more than fifteen years ago, he was building torture chambers for the Shah-en-Shah and the Khanum, how he was sent to carry out political assassinations, and how he was sentenced to death. Evidently, the title of Daroga meant chief of police, and Nadir was the Daroga of Mazandaran. Nadir had been told to arrest Erik so that he could be executed. Nadir chose to help Erik escape instead, and for that, he was exiled himself. At least that explained the bond the two men had, no matter how strange it was. The rest of Melek’s story simply made Christine want to cry, to weep at the things Erik had done and to weep at the things that had been done to him. “To think he simply decided to train your voice… although, Nadir has told me it is quite lovely… but you must be on guard, for Erik is the Angel of Death!” 

Before Christine could say anything, Nadir arrived as what she thought of as a saving grace. He greeted her cordially and thanked her for waiting with Melek, who evidently had arrived to stay a while with him. Christine gave a smile, assuring Nadir that she didn’t mind at all, and thanked Melek for telling her the story. Even though she knew that Melek’s side certainly had bias and that there were still many things that were missing. She’d ask Erik, she had to. If she wanted to stop being afraid, she had to know, and if he was to truly have the chance to heal, he’d have to understand the things that had happened— something Christine was certain he didn’t understand at all. 

She decided to walk the short distance to her new home, steeling her nerves before she opened the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 whole chapters in a day and counting, I'm on a roll! 
> 
> So, MazM decided to throw in Melek although they did it BADLY. I still do like having a character who has that sort of anger and fear, but I wanted to uhhh put her NOT where MazM did. MazM also named the Daroga 'Hatim', which is a cool name but throws me off badly, so Nadir it is. 
> 
> Melek's side of the story is really more heresay, she also knows Erik through Nadir, and only knows the horrors that everyone was aware of, so of course her story is very biased and very incomplete, which Christine understands, so of course she wants the full thing, but that might take a while for her to actually manage...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine asks questions, daring to be brave even when fearing the worst. Erik surprises the both of them.

Christine should’ve expected Erik to appear when she opened the door, but his sudden appearance still startled her. As he’d done before, he quickly closed the door as soon as she’d entered, breathing heavy. This time, he simply seemed frightened, which was perhaps a step up from angry, but still not ideal. She wondered if ever there would be a day where Erik would know that it was just her entering the house, or if he’d ever let other people in. More than that, she wondered if he'd react as violently as she thought he would when she told him about her encounter with Melek. Oh, it was now or never! “Erik, may we talk?” How she hated the way her voice wavered! She knew Erik hated when she was afraid, how he always blamed himself and how his hurt so often fed into more anger— 

“Talk about what, my angel?” To her surprise, Erik hadn't spiralled into a horrible tantrum, a small victory that spurred her on. “I met a woman named Melek at the Opera House today.” 

Erik froze, and Christine could tell that his thoughts were pulling him far away. She found herself once again taking his hand, stroking the back of it with her thumb as an attempt to ground him. When that led nowhere, she mustered up the courage to do something that very likely could be the death of her. Reaching up, she placed a gentle hand on Erik’s cheek, turning his head so that he was looking at her, a nervous but sincere smile upon her face. “Erik, come back to me. Don't shut me out.” 

His return to reality was harsh and terrifying as always. Feeling his hand wrap around her wrist, Christine gasped as he pulled her hand away from his face and turned from her. “Let me guess, she told you I was a monster, right? That I would be your death? That you weren't safe here, that I would do awful things to torture you?” He noticed the look on her face and let go of her wrist, jumping back as if she had burned him! “I know what she told me was only one side, and it certainly didn’t sound like the side of someone directly involved. She told me to be careful, but I didn’t need Melek in my life to know the things you could do. The things you have done.” As soon as the words left her lips, she regretted saying them at all.

This was it, he was going to kill her. Erik towered over her, one of his hands reaching out as if he was ready to break her neck. And how easy it would be for him to do! Erik was much stronger than he looked. He’d picked her up many times as if she weighed nothing, he was capable of incredible feats, and if what Melek said was true, he was capable of taking on men much larger than he— truly, it was just like Erik to present himself in some deceptive manner, hiding truths about himself be those truths his strength or his face or his humanity— Christine closed her eyes and waited. 

And  **_waited_ ** . 

“Erik?” When she opened her eyes, he had turned away from her. He hadn’t killed her after all. Another small victory. In fact, he seemed to simply be in shock, the hand that was surely going to be around her throat instead raised to touch his cheek where her hand had been before. Then, he let out a sorrowful sound, not daring to face her. Not like this, and perhaps never again. “Erik, please, I won't ask you to tell me everything… please, let's find somewhere to sit—” With a very defeated sigh, Erik seemed to accept that Christine was not going to leave the topic alone and that perhaps it would be best to just tell her. 

Tell her so that she could know how much of a monster he really was. If she was afraid of him now, then she would certainly be even more so after hearing his side— because she was right. Melek only knew what she heard from others, but it was Erik who carried out the heinous acts she described. Of course he knew the real story, those sins were his alone.

* * *

Erik’s way of describing Mazandaran made the place sound like a dream. Lush and lovely, it was where the Shah-en-Shah and the Khanum would travel to for leisure time. He had come to Mazandaran after casting aside another part of his past, which he refused to speak of, although Christine had a feeling that one day, she'd learn that part of his story, too. 

In Mazandaran, Erik built a great palace that appeared to be magic, for a person could walk through the entire thing and never be seen. A mark of his genius. He was also hired as an assassin, as he'd proven to be skilled in that, too. As Melek had told her, Erik also told Christine of the deaths. Of how he would kill to entertain the Khanum, a wicked woman. How he was ordered to build chambers where others would die— six mirrors that reached from the floor to the ceiling and an iron tree in the corner of the mirrored room created the illusion of an endless forest of iron trees from which the victim could never escape. Most chose to commit sucide by hanging themselves from the tree. “Joseph Buquet chose that fate, too, when he found himself trapped there.” 

Christine stared at Erik, who spoke so calmly of the stagehand’s death. Yes, she knew it was Erik who had killed Buquet, even if not with his own hand. Yes, she knew that the resonating sound of the pipe organ that day was also Erik’s doing. But, seeing the distant look in his eyes made her understand that perhaps he wasn't so cruel as Melek made him out to be, as she once believed him to be. While it wasn't guilt, it was far from satisfaction or pride, perhaps a melancholy acceptance. One more horrible thing that he believed to be a fact of his life. Like his belief that she had brought him to this home in the light to let him die and to allow herself freedom. Because he believed that she would never, never love him, but her acting skills had certainly improved, and if he tried hard enough, maybe he'd believe the lie. 

“Erik, let's go for a walk tomorrow.” 

Now, it was Erik’s turn to stare at Christine in shock. A walk was something so simple to most, and how foolish he felt for once again wanting to run away. Every time she offered to try to improve their relationship, he felt like running away— because how could that be real? “Why?” The question was laced with sorrow and suspicion, and he felt a sharp pain seeing the look on Christine’s face. “Why do people go on walks usually, Erik? Tomorrow is Sunday, we can… Didn't you want to go on Sunday walks with me?” 

Truly, Christine always seemed to have some new thing to add to his life, and Erik wasn't sure if he was so excited about her newfound ability to catch him completely off guard. He did tell her that he wanted to be like other people, that he wanted to have a wife and to go on walks on Sundays, but not in whatever state he was in. Not without some form of protection, and Christine had  _ conveniently _ burned his masks before they left the catacombs. She asked him to walk with her, knowing very well how terrified he was. She asked knowing that perhaps he would simply drop dead from shock. 

What a beautiful death that would be, although the prospect of dying before finishing his opera felt so foreign— and against his better judgement, he nodded. “If that is what you want, you know that your Erik can deny you nothing.” 

Christine’s face lit up with a lovely smile, one that made Erik think that maybe everything would be fine. When he retired to the drawing room with his dinner, he still almost believed it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What always got me about MazM's Christine is the fact that she honestly had just as many unexpected turns in her behavior as Erik, less violent, but no less clever. Phantom of the Opera is not meant to be a love story, it's about prejudices and unreliable narrators weaving stories that make us assume things without thinking. Clearly, Christine is far from perfect, she literally just strong-armed Erik into a Sunday stroll, but a good read-through of Leroux will show that no one involved in the story is an angel, and essentially nothing is healthy. 
> 
> As stated before, more angst than fluff, but more comfort than hurt. These two have a painfully complex relationship, but they're learning to try to not be big messes. 
> 
> Don't expect Erik's weird calm to last because it won't. He's in shock from physical contact and just as prone to hoping as any other person, even if he pretends he isn't. 
> 
> Anyway, they'll get to being not sorta horrid to each other eventually. Give it a few chapters or so...
> 
> Next up, some more awkward bonding, a Sunday stroll, and more of Erik being Erik. 
> 
> Also, if you haven't ever seen photos of Mazandaran, please google it, it's gorgeous.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Erik start to learn where they once went wrong and where they should begin again.

Christine’s sleep was deep and dreamless, empty, but peaceful. After she ate dinner, she had retired to her room, said her prayers, and fallen asleep to the sound of Erik playing the piano. In the morning, she woke to the sound of running water in a room much closer than the drawing room. Of course Erik would’ve found a home with plumbing— for a man who had lived in the catacombs, Christine had learned that he was bordering mysophobia. She thought of the many candles in the catacombs that were lit to chase away the stench of death, and of the fact that while she’d made the assumption, Erik did not smell of decay. Instead, he smelled of spices and sandalwood, pleasant and comforting. What a contrast to the rest of him, cold and cadaverous. There was the hauntingly beautiful sound of his voice from the washroom, and if not for her own desire to bathe, she would’ve simply continued to lay in bed and listen. 

Ever so considerate, Erik had made sure that Christine had a separate washroom, attached to her bedroom. Likely, Erik’s own room wasn’t too far away from hers, which was slightly unexpected. But, he’d also provided her with a room with a door that locked, so that she could keep him out, because he thought she would always want to keep him out. Slipping out of her bed and heading to her own washroom, Christine pondered this. Did she want to keep him out forever? Was it wise to ever leave the door unlocked? Would he come to her room in the cover of night? If he did, what would he do? From the few times she initiated contact, he always pulled away, and it seemed quite unlikely that he would initiate it— which to her surprise was an incredibly disappointing thought. Since when was Erik’s touch something that was at all appealing? Perhaps she was going mad! 

_ Perhaps, you’re simply learning about yourself _ , came a quiet thought.  _ He was not the angel of music, but he was a friend, a guide and guardian. He listened when no one else would _ . Slipping out of her nightgown and into the tub now filled with warm water, Christine let out a sigh. Oh, feelings and realisations were such messy things! If she'd had her way, Erik would have been honest with her from the start. Because she couldn't fathom not having him in her life in some way— as if a part of her needed him there. Perhaps a part of her  **_did_ ** . 

_ Oh, God in Heaven, I never asked for the capacity to love ugly things. _

* * *

Erik had decided to forego sleep in favor of composing, a burst of inspiration lingering in him from the memory of Christine’s touch. He’d scrapped an entire aria, deciding that perhaps, perhaps his opera was not meant always to burn.  _ Don Juan Triumphant _ was his soul in music, the way he saw the world, his hopes and dreams and ideals! Before Christine, the brief glimpses of light had been far from enough to pull him from the darkness, he would stare at blank parchment for hours on end, uncertain of what was meant to be. But now, now the music which had often been so elusive bloomed within him! The story that was meant to be told flowed forth in a way that felt as easy as breathing. Yes, for so long it seemed that he’d only been able to grasp bits and pieces of his  _ Don Juan _ — Now, it wouldn’t be long before he had a finished product, even if he started from scratch. 

It would not be long until he died and set Christine free. Death had once been something he had almost yearned for, but now? There was a part of him that wanted to live. What a fool he had been, never knowing how to value life until it was almost at its end— oh, and wouldn’t that make a lovely song, too? One more piece of his opera flowed from his soul to paper before Erik decided that he most certainly needed to find some way to relax. A bath had seemed a fine idea, so long as he just stopped thinking and simply absentmindedly sang. As if he could stop thinking about everything that he wanted and knew he would never have. At least, he could sing.

It was for that reason that Erik had covered the mirrors, needing no unnecessary reminders of the harsh and cruel reality of himself. Of his face and his scars that were most certainly the mark of some sin that he could not name— He needed no other reminders of the fact that perhaps in another lifetime, he would not be so terrible to look at. In another lifetime, Christine would love him, but not in this one. In that lifetime, they would sing together, she’d smile at him out of real love and not out of pity. Perhaps they’d have a family, but that would be up to her— for Erik, just having Christine was enough. Even now, just knowing that she was not so far away and that she was smiling was enough. She never smiled at him before, not down in the catacombs. She never reached out to him or dared to ask him about his past. She was never vibrant, always pale and on the verge of fainting, because she was suffocating. He was suffocating her. Living in the light, he realized that perhaps he was suffocating himself, too.

* * *

The bath-water was starting to cool, and Christine realized that she could no longer hear the sound of Erik’s singing. Likely, he had finished his own morning routine, so it was only sensible that she should finish up hers. It was strange, living like two everyday people, when she knew quite well that neither of them were everyday people at all.  _ It would be different with Raoul _ , she thought.  _ Raoul is not prone to such horrid mood swings _ . But, Raoul also had thought her stories of the Angel of Music to be nonsense until he, too, heard Erik’s voice. Even after that, it took Erik’s arrival at the masquerade for Raoul to really understand. And now… Oh, she would have to tell Raoul what had happened, but to do that, she’d have to lie to Erik. Erik would never let her see Raoul, for he would believe that she would abandon him in the house. Yes, Erik saw this home as a cage, for he had no desire to venture outside where society’s prying eyes would condemn him— 

And he’d agreed to go on a stroll! What torture for him— poor, unhappy Erik! He loved her so dearly that he was willing to condemn himself for her, was that it?  _ Have I condemned him to death? _ Christine stared at her wardrobe as if it would somehow have an answer for her. It didn’t, of course, for it was only a wardrobe. A wardrobe filled with the lovely dresses that Erik had bought for her! At least it seemed that whatever time he spent watching her did not include watching her undress, as the dresses weren’t tailored exactly for her, the dress she picked feeling somewhat loose. Perhaps she’d ask Erik for a needle and thread. Perhaps over breakfast, if he’d stay. 

Leaving her room, Christine made her way to the kitchen to prepare a meal for herself, only to jump back in surprise. While the man before her was most certainly Erik, she only knew so because of the fact that no other man lived in the house. Otherwise, he had managed to create an incredible illusion of normalcy; he wore spectacles and had fashioned a false nose with a very aristocratic mustache. He’d tied his hair back and had picked a lovely dark suit that made him seem no different from any other Parisian nobleman. 

Christine opened her mouth to say  _ something _ , the something amounting to a “Good morning” that sounded more like a squeak than anything else. Erik, much to her dismay, seemed amused by how flustered she was, placing her plate at the table, a sound like a purr escaping him. Christine frowned. “Erik, are you laughing at me?” Despite the way he shook his head, she knew he was lying. “Well, it isn't my fault that I reacted like that! Imagine if one day you came for breakfast and I had cut my hair and dyed it to look like Meg! How would you react?” 

Erik sat at the table with her, a thoughtful look on his face— a face that looked foreign to Christine, although she knew why he’d chosen to do something like that. “You would look incredibly pale with dark hair like Meg. I must say that blond suits you perfectly. My Christine, do not ever feel as if you need to change a thing about yourself.” The words were gentle, but not without a bit of melancholy. A part of her wished that she could say the same— instead, she opts for something else. “We all have things that we need to work on, right? To improve… you taught me that. You say I have no need to change a thing, but if I had never changed, would I have been on the stage? Or would I be in the ballet corps still? Or would I be doing something else entirely? Change isn’t so awful, Erik. I think…” A pause, “There are plenty of things I should work to change about myself, even if they aren’t the color of my hair.” 

Had he taught her that? It was true, when Christine had first tried to sing, it was… well, horrid. Something that had potential, or Erik would never have made the attempt to teach her, but she was right. If she’d never worked to change, to improve her work ethic so that she could make those great strides, where would she be now? “What could you possibly need to change, now, my angel?” She was not like him, where everything about him seemed wrong, unholy, unworthy! She was not always running, she did not live by deceiving others— at least… not like he did. He’d forced her to remain silent, suffocating her as if he thought that the only way she’d ever stay at his side was if she was dead. 

“Erik,” 

That sweet voice broke through his thoughts, drawing him back to the present moment. “I want to learn to be brave. I am so very tired of being a rabbit-hearted girl, unable to muster the courage to truly take a chance in the name of the things I want. And… I know no better teacher than you. Let’s go on our Sunday stroll. _Teach me how to be brave_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I did not get to the actual walk part because I do NOT know how to make anything concise, so that's getting slapped into the next chapter. 
> 
> They're both trying, which is nice, but they're also both traumatized so everything is still horribly awkward, so countdown to Erik's next meltdown. 
> 
> My favorite thing about Erik's whole false nose thing is the fact that it's just ... a more refined version of those prank mustache glasses that people buy for the lols, and I will never be over this. There are actually may practical reasons for Erik to have a false nose, all of which are medical related, but I won't bore you guys with the nursing aspect of things, that's not what anyone is here for, I'm sure. 
> 
> MazM gave us long hair Erik & I take my medical knowledge liberties for this piece of literature, but regardless, MazM's design for Erik is one of my favorites. 
> 
> I also am well aware that it seems to be an unspoken thing among writers that Erik seems to smell like sandalwood, I am not the first person to write this, I will not be the last. Sandalwood holds its scent for YEARS, and is used in many perfumes, or so I've read.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine and Erik take a short walk, which opens up a doorway to more of Erik's past.

The air was brisk, but incredibly refreshing nonetheless. Christine had insisted on simply heading to a bakery, having noticed one on her walk home the previous day. While she would've loved to walk all the way to the Opera House, she was well aware that Erik was only taking the walk with her because… well, he was trying to make her happy. For him, this was surely torture, a meltdown waiting to happen—

Taking his arm, Christine sighed. This wasn't so horrid, was it? Taking a walk with a man who was her vocal coach and a very unorthodox suitor… it was far from the most scandalous thing in Paris! As she expected, Erik was incredibly tense, clearly finding very little comfort in a hat and cloak and the false nose despite her insistence that he looked quite presentable. Giving his arm a gentle pat, she asked if he knew about the bakery in the first place. 

“It’s certainly close by,” came his mellifluous voice, “It won't be much of a Sunday stroll, but I do know why you've picked that bakery as our destination.” At this, Christine smiled and Erik allowed himself to relax just a bit. “Well, why do you think I picked the bakery?” Undoubtedly, his answer would be exactly why, although she couldn't help but think that he would miss a few other subtle things. 

“You wanted to take a walk, but you are also well aware that this,” Erik paused to glance around, “is far out of my element. oh, Christine, surely you would prefer to do this with someone else—” 

Why Erik always managed to make it seem like he both wanted to spend time with her and stay as far away as possible at the same time was beyond Christine’s comprehension. Yes, she had decided on the bakery as it would be a small step, instead of simply forcing Erik to do what other Parisians did, but he seemed to have this idea that she had taken Sunday strolls with other people before. “Erik, this is new for me, too. I have never had anyone take a walk with me like this. I know you must think otherwise, but what time did I have between my time at the Opera and our lessons and aiding Madame Valerius? Who would've walked with me?” That certainly seemed to make him think. 

“What of that boy of yours, Raoul?” Even in casual conversation, Erik managed to make his distaste for the young de Chagny incredibly clear, to which Christine huffed. “Raoul and I hadn't seen each other in years before that night where I sang— when we were children, we were not interested in talking walks like adults.” _Besides, even if I wanted to let Raoul take me on a Sunday stroll, you would never allow it_. Those words were left unspoken, but she knew Erik heard them anyway. 

“Oh,” came his awkward reply, a rather flustered look crossing his face. “Then this is new for the both of us.” The rest of their short walk was spent in silence, although it wasn't necessarily uncomfortable— with the brief interruption of their entry to the bakery, where it seemed Christine was already a familiar face. 

“Mademoiselle Daaé!” 

The baker, a large man who reminded Erik of Mssr Richard, came out to greet Christine enthusiastically. “I was wondering when you would come by again! Is it the same as always? I certainly know Madame Valerius’ tastes well from how often she sends you here!” 

Christine laughed, a sound as clear as a bell, one that made Erik’s heart skip a beat. “No, actually, today I am not here on behalf of Madame Valerius, I’m here simply to find something for myself.” Already, Christine was looking at some delicious looking pastries, eventually picking a few, which Erik managed to pay for in the fashion of a proper gentleman. The baker arched a large, bushy eyebrow. “Oh!” Christine felt heat rising to her face, feeling at a loss of exactly how to explain Erik in a way that wouldn't make the baker ask too many questions and wouldn't result in Erik panicking in the bakery. “Ah… Monsieur Jacque, this is my vocal coach!” A silence fell for a moment before the baker, Jacque, gave a nod and extended a hand to Erik. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Monsieur—” 

“Séverin,” came Erik’s tense reply; the tenseness seemed to go unnoticed as he at least managed to shake Jacque’s hand instead of running out the door. Christine stared for a moment before taking the bag with the pastries. Whatever else she said to Jacque was completely lost to Erik, who had found himself at a loss of how to process the incredibly amiable interaction. When he seemed to return his focus to the present, he and Christine were out of the bakery and almost to their home. 

**_Their_ ** home. Yes, it was their home. A fact that seemed both wonderful and terrifying. 

“Erik Séverin… it sounds noble.” Once again, Christine had taken his arm as if he was any ordinary man, which he most certainly was not. “Whose surname is that, though, or is it one you simply thought of?” Erik stayed silent until they had both entered the house and he had closed and locked the door. Gently, this time. He took off his hat and cloak and then went to the washroom, leaving Christine to wait in the Louis-Phillipe room. One that only vaguely reminded Christine of the one in the house by the lake. When he returned, he had taken off the spectacles and the false nose and mustache, which Christine found to be incredibly relieving. 

Since when did she find Erik’s face _relieving_?

Oh, but she'd ponder that at a later time, as she was much more focused on getting the answer to the question she'd asked! Before she could scold Erik for simply walking away from the conversation, he sat down in a chair and stared at the unlit fireplace. Somehow, she knew that he’d once again let his mind wander somewhere very far away. Deciding on an attempt to bring him back again, she found herself stopped in her tracks when he looked back at her with that hollow and sorrowful expression.

“I did not make that up in the spur of the moment, Christine, although truly I wish I had. Séverin was my mother’s surname.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so here I go with my own ideas, the next chapter is going to be Erik actually talking about his life in some manner, so I will definitely get to show off all of my ideas. 
> 
> Gold star to Erik for managing to survive that, although he did dissociate at the end.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine learns about Erik's mother

There had been a portrait of a woman in the house by the lake. Christine had seen it a few times and had always wondered why Erik would have a woman’s portrait when he clearly lived alone. At first, she thought perhaps the painting was of another woman Erik had fancied, as Melek had mentioned something about Erik being with women during his time as the Angel of Death. But, for as tactless as he could be, he would never leave a painting of a former love where his new ingenue could see. Now, as Christine watched Erik lose himself in some deep abyss in his mind, she was more than certain that the woman in the portrait was Erik’s mother, and not a former lost love— A relief. Not like the relief she'd felt knowing her dear Raoul still thought of her fondly, but still one that made it feel easier to breathe.

“What was she like? Your mother— that was her portrait I saw, right?” Erik frowned before he stood up again, certainly to leave Christine alone! It truly was foolish of her to ask him about someone who clearly had left lasting scars upon him— even if she couldn't see. After all, Erik’s face was simply physical, and if it was simply that, then… she could learn to look past the lack of a nose, but he was so very volatile! Even now, they’d come back from what she thought of as a very successful stroll only for him to — 

To light the fire so that they could be warm. To gently usher her to the couch and drape a warm blanket over her lap. He wasn't leaving, he was… He was thinking of her and of ways to make her comfortable, and surely he was forcing himself to stay and talk, because he… He was willing to try. That realisation sent a strange warmth through Christine’s body and she couldn't help but let out a breath she hadn't even known she'd been holding once Erik sat back down. Not on the couch, of course, for he still wanted his space, but the chair was not so far away. 

“Madaleine Séverin was always a stranger to me. She had no desire to know her monster of a child— and I learned it was best that I gave up on trying to know her.” Erik sighed and Christine realized perhaps for the first time that for all of the horrible things he had done, for all of the places he'd been, Erik wasn't nearly as old as she'd thought. Sitting there by the fireplace, there was a timidity in his demeanor that she only had ever associated with youth. Erik spoke about his mother in the way Raoul talked about his father— from the perspective of someone who had lost some fundamental innocence before they even knew the world. Funny, how she could compare Erik to Raoul at all, but it was simply another reminder that Erik was only human. 

“She played piano and knew how to sing. I didn't have to talk to her to understand that she was most certainly educated.” Erik’s voice dragged Christine from her thoughts once more, her lips parting as she simply let out a soft _oh_. “Ah, she did not sing like you, Christine. There is no voice in the world as lovely as yours— no, Madaleine was an alto. If only her soul had been as rich and warm as her voice—” He fell silent again, gaze shifting to his feet. Christine took the opportunity to shift slightly on the couch in a way that surely would show Erik that she wanted him to sit with her. Or so she thought. How was it that he could be so brilliant and yet so very unobservant at the same time? For Erik remained where he was, completely unaware. “You said she didn't want to know you…” Christine could only imagine how lonely that must've felt. For Erik to have a mother who chose to ignore him or worse — “What of your father?” 

“My father died before I was born, but Madaleine always talked about him. On the rare occasions she would acknowledge her son, she would always lament about how Erik looked nothing like his father!” Christine flinched, feeling sickened by the thought of a young Erik being subjected to harsh reminders of his reality in such a way! And by his own mother! 

As she learned, Erik's father was from Persia. A man named Kourosh, he was an architect and a visionary — and evidently he had been incredibly handsome. And that awful woman had dared to hate her son for something he couldn't control! There was, of course, the distinct possibility that Madaleine had lied to Erik. Maybe what was so distressing was that he did still have a resemblance to his father. If not in looks, then perhaps in his talents. But, even if that was the case, shouldn't Madaleine have cherished her son instead? 

“What are you thinking, Christine?” Erik’s voice brought her back to reality, a slightly amused look on his face. “O-Oh, well… I was thinking that your mother shouldn't have treated you so cruelly… and I think she's wrong… About you. I don't know what your father looked like, but I don't think that matters. Even from the little you told me… I believe he was likely a very good man, and I think… Erik, I think he would've loved you.” The amusement on Erik’s face had vanished, replaced by something hollow, but for once, not threatening. Simply hollow. “He was a good man, his work was well known in Persia. But, Erik has stopped wondering about his father and everything that could have been—” Trailing off, Erik finally stood again, a soft sigh escaping him. “I will be in the drawing room if you should need me, Christine.” 

She watched him as he simply stood and left, letting out a breath that she hadn't realised she was holding as soon as she heard the sound of Erik’s violin from behind a closed door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heck ok this feels very scattered. Uni kicked me into next tuesday, but I did manage this! Writing is slow but I have a lot more in very choppy draft forms for this story! 
> 
> Now we just wait until Christine learns about Luciana. 
> 
> Erik's father is from Persia, since that's never stated in the book, but with all of the ties he has, biracial Erik is not so far fetched.
> 
> Next up, some more bonding and a little bit of Don Juan.


End file.
